North of Normal
by Amputation
Summary: Shooter!verse threeshot. "Sometimes John wondered what their reunion would be like. When he had downtime between running an elusive MI5 (ahem, MI6) surgery and tailing his estranged flat mate all across the globe..." :: Eventual Johnlock.
1. Of Fragrant Tea & Bizarre Détentes

**A/N:** This is a three part continuation of my story Shooter. All this takes place in the Shooter!verse, so you should probably read that before this. It should make sense without reading it, but some bits might make you go 'dafuq?' So better safe than sorry! Anyway, please review and let me know your thoughts. I appreciate any and all feedback.

NOTE: This is unbeta'd and not Britpicked. If anyone wants to try their hand, feel free.

* * *

**North of Normal**

Written by Amputation

* * *

1/3 -_ Of Fragrant Tea and Bizarre Détentes_

Sometimes John wondered what their reunion would be like. When he had downtime between running an elusive MI5 (ahem, MI6) surgery and tailing his estranged flat mate all across the globe, he quite enjoyed his little flights of fantasy. Most of his imaginings were horribly clichéd and overly romanticised daydreams where Sherlock would appear dramatically as a shadow in the sitting room of 221B, usually in the midst of a thunderstorm with the damned Belstaff fluttering behind him like a flag in the wind. There would be a long monologue that would inevitably lead to tears and fumbled declarations of love that culminated in fiery, passionate lovemaking. It was like something out of a harlequin romance novel (not that John read those, nope definitely not) and so ridiculous it actually made him laugh rather than pine for Sherlock.

His flights of fancy were preposterous, and John knew that such a reunion would never happen. He was a soldier, a doctor. He'd been running all over creation to assassinate malicious people connected by the strings of Moriarty's web and saving the lives of a multitude of the government's agents, all while assisting New Scotland Yard on the side whenever Greg called for a fresh perspective. No, John definitely wasn't some love-struck teenager with raging hormones and not a whit of sense. The past three years had done nothing but harden his shell even further, and the squishy, cuddly centre remained buried deep. Sherlock certainly didn't harbour the same feelings of affection and love John did, and even so it would be dangerous to take a leap towards a potential relationship without calculated planning.

John was — if nothing else — a strategist. He enjoyed coming up with countless possibilities to solve a problem, often with multitudes of writing and rewriting plans in his head. It was what made him such an excellent assassin. Sometimes he wondered about the local authorities standing around the body of a criminal he'd put there, discussing the "mysterious killer's" _modus operandi _and conducting an investigation. Not that they'd ever find him; not when he had excellently executed plans to cover his back and Mycroft to obliterate whatever tracks remained. His love of strategic thinking was one of the reasons he so enjoyed working with Sherlock in the first place; he adored coming up with tactics for taking down a murderer or other shady sort. Granted, the consulting detective didn't oft ask his opinions on the matter, but it was a great brain exercise regardless. It kept him sharp and clear-headed. He had a feeling that after the past three years, his strategies would be even sharper and more eloquent than ever. Thinking on the run, now _that_ was good old fashioned euphoria.

John yawned loudly as he started down the stairs, scratching absently at the moustache he'd taken to growing over the past few months. After that one slip up in Germany, he'd taken to altering his appearance slightly every eight weeks or so. It was never dramatic enough to alert the people who didn't know of his circumstances but was always enough to fool anyone else. It worked sufficiently well. The few times John found assassins in the flat, it usually left him cleaning out bloodstains on the carpet. Again. Mycroft never stopped the attempts on his life. The bloody prat _knew_ John loved the challenge: the ridiculous adrenaline rush that came with finding an assassin in his flat and then subsequently _destroying_ them. No, that was an unspoken agreement between himself and the elder Holmes. He and the British Government had come to a quiet camaraderie over the past three years on the subject of John's endangerment. He quite liked that.

He shook himself from his sleep dampened state and shuffled into the kitchen, putting on the kettle and grabbing yesterday's paper. He shoved it into the pocket of the Derek Rose dressing gown he'd bought with his first pay cheque from Mycroft. It was a deep navy trimmed in gray, the entire thing a beautiful silk creation matching the elegance of Sherlock's own dressing gowns. John thought himself mighty posh in it. He bustled about the kitchen, putting tea leaves in the teapot while the water heated and humming off-key under his breath. John liked the placidity of the mornings, the lethargy he exuded appearing on all counts to be completely sleep-fuzzed. In all actuality, John was wide awake. The ever-present weight of his Browning slipped into the waistband of his pyjamas pressed comfortably against his spine, and the slightest threat would trigger his shift from docile, sleepy creature into a deadly force of nature.

The kettle whistled and he set about steeping his tea, grabbing his RAMC mug and twirling it absently in his hands. John smothered another lazy yawn and peered at the front page of the paper he'd shoved in his dressing gown's pocket. Mrs Hudson was a saint, truly, for bringing it up when he was out yesterday. (One of Mycroft's agents managed to get nearly disembowelled. He'd fixed it.) As his eyes lazily skimmed over some of the dull, monotonous news he leaned against the wall and rolled his shoulders with a low pop. He sighed, wrinkling his nose at the newsprint. Boring! Nothing ever seemed to happen when he was home in London. As much as he loved the flat and the city, sometimes John craved the insanity of saving the life of an MI5 (read: MI6) agent or shooting a criminal from insane distances or smashing in the skull of a would-be assassin. Not-so-secretly, John loved pressure, danger.

Folding up the paper, John poured the steeped tea into his mug, adding a splash of milk and spot of honey simply because he could before shuffling to his armchair. Dropping into it unceremoniously, he settled back and buried his nose in the fragrant steam. This was one of his favourite blends, a combination of Earl Grey black and Earl Grey green with just a touch of cinnamon. The scent was warm and homey and reminded him of good times in 221B. He'd tasted something like it on an assassination escapade in Bangladesh and had simply become addicted. He shut his eyes and inhaled deeply, relaxing into the softness of his armchair. He raised the mug to his lips, breathing in deeply and indulging... but before he could take a sip, there was a particularly loud knock from downstairs.

'Bloody —!' John glared at the door, growling. He had no desire to trudge down those seventeen steps to bark at some poor sod who didn't know to leave John alone when he was partaking in his tea. Raising the mug to his lips again, he shut his eyes and took a long first sip, sighed with pleasure as the hot liquid trailed down his throat, settling comfortably in his stomach. Oh, _yes — _the knock persisted a second time. Grumbling loudly, John stood up, set down his mug on the coffee table, and flung open the door to the flat. He was not happy. Whoever was at the front door had best have a damn good reason for interrupting his tea time. Storming down the stairs, John channelled his inner consulting-five-year-old and silently whinged about the injustice of Mrs Hudson being out so she couldn't get the door for him. He heard her voice in his head, "not your housekeeper, dear!" and smiled despite his grumpiness.

The brief fondness for Mrs H faded immediately when yet another knock resounded from the door, this one louder and slightly more aggressive than the last two. Scowling, John cranked open the deadbolt and glared, squinting out into the bright intensity of the outdoors.

John blinked rapidly to adjust his eyes to the brightness of the day, 'For the love of god, what do you want? If you're trying to sell me something, you can just bugger off — '

'John.'

With a click of his jaw, the man in question stared out at the figure on the doorstep, watching as his eyes adjusted. Oh. It was him. Huh. He didn't look half bad, for dressing in what constituted as rags. Sherlock stood there in a pair of ratty jeans, a grungy looking black jumper, and a pair of beat-to-shite Chuck Taylors. He really didn't look well, those ridiculous cheekbones highlighting his sallow complexion more than usual, but then again John knew of the detective's condition already. He'd followed the blasted man for nearly three years; the decline in Sherlock's health was not a surprise. John blinked lazily, musing on whether it would be worth it to just punch the skinny twat on his doorstep. Sherlock looked like a kicked puppy and John felt a spike of indignation rise. How dare he get to stand there and look helpless when John wanted to sock him one. A vein jumped against his temporal bone. Oh, fuck it, kicked puppy or not — John stepped closer and with a practiced speed he knew the taller man couldn't match, decked the twat right on the cheekbone.

It was with great satisfaction that he watched the consulting detective stagger backward before he simply fell onto his arse. John straightened his shoulders and offered a soldierly nod before turning sharply on his heel and marching upstairs. He left the front door open, knowing Sherlock wasn't stupid enough to ignore the obvious invitation. John strode confidently around the kitchen, preparing another mug of tea in celebration of his idiot flat mate finally returning home. His insight on the open invitation was proven correct when he heard the familiar but skittish stride of Sherlock on the stairs.

John turned around, a mug of tea in his hands, sweetened with a good dollop of honey and milk exactly like he knew Sherlock liked it. The consulting detective hovered in the main doorway of the flat with a distinctly awkward air about him. He wasn't his usual confident self, probably because the prat hadn't expected to be punched in the face and yet _still_ be invited inside. John watched patiently as Sherlock's ever-observant eyes gazed over the unchanged sitting room, glazed slightly in obvious nostalgia. It all faded in a matter of milliseconds when those mercurial irises locked onto the nearly-invisible bloodstains on the carpet. Bollocks. That meant he'd have to clean them. Again.

'John, I — ' Sherlock started to say as he finally stepped into the flat, his eyebrows furrowed as he turned his gaze from the carpet to the doctor.

'It's not mine, if that's what you're worried about,' John commented calmly, walking over to the dishevelled detective. It was so bizarre seeing him look so out of place in their sitting room. John fought down the urge to ruffle the detective's excessively shaggy curls.

Sherlock's brow furrowed further, 'How is it not yours? Clearly you haven't had company much less injured company, judging by the state of the flat. It hardly seems lived in,' he stated, walking over to where the blood had been spattered beside the sofa and cluttered coffee table. While it was true, the flat _was_ remarkably devoid of constant life, the blood still wasn't John's, 'and yet this can't be more than — ' Sherlock continued.

'It just isn't, Sherlock. Leave it,' John interrupted the detective's deductions, shoving the mug into Sherlock's suddenly shaking hands.

'John, I wanted to say I — I'm sorr — '

'I know,' the doctor interrupted placidly as he settled into his armchair, swivelling to face the sofa, 'now _sit_ and _drink your tea_.' John hadn't wanted to hear an apology from Sherlock, not yet. He had to make the man understand how stupid he'd been and wasn't going to accept those two words until comprehension dawned in those annoyingly fascinating eyes.

Said eyes widened comically at John's barked order and he sat back onto the sofa with a _whump_, limbs flailing slightly. Self-satisfaction bubbled up in his chest and he held back the smirk that accompanied it. Sherlock never could resist the 'Army John' voice, not since John had noticed the detective's reaction back at Baskerville. The ex-soldier watched as the consulting detective sipped his tea tentatively, feeling another burst of satisfaction when Sherlock let out a low, near-imperceptible hum of approval. John retrieved his own mug and sipped his cooler tea. For a time, 221B Baker Street was silent, but the air was charged and tense. It wouldn't last long, John was certain of it.

'John, I had to,' Sherlock finally interjected, clutching his mug in white fingers.

The doctor peered calmly over the lip of his mug at the man who couldn't meet his eyes, arching a brow, 'I know.'

Sherlock started, clearly surprised at the response, 'You knew. How did you know?'

John smiled, 'Deduce it yourself, Sherlock,' he replied, gazing fondly at his oblivious flat mate and relishing in the multitude of different emotions flickering subtly across the younger man's face.

'You aren't angry?' Verdigris eyes shifted up, locking into deep blue. Childish confusion and hope stared back. John smiled again, amused.

'Oh, I'm furious.'

'And you punched me,' Sherlock furrowed his brow again, 'even though you knew I _had_ to disappear. Why?'

'I punched you, you prat, because you deserved it.'

The detective's shoulders slumped just slightly, but John caught the tiny motion and felt slightly guilty for making the younger man question himself. He felt the need to clarify.

'I mourned you, Sherlock. I was a miserable wreck! Do you have any idea how much my life revolved around you?' he asked with a heavy sigh, 'I lost my job at the surgery because I couldn't bring myself to leave the flat for months and my limp came back, too. It was devastating, Sherlock, so imagine my surprise when I realise you're still alive.'

Wild eyes snapped up to stare at John, 'But how did you know? It was executed perfectly!' Sherlock's eyes glazed while he tried to find a flaw in his plans, 'Did Molly slip up? Of course it had to be Molly...'

'Give the poor girl some credit, you arse. She never slipped up. I at _least_ know how to catch someone lying after living with you for eighteen months. I'm not stupid, contrary to your persistent remarks.'

'John, you're not — '

'Sherlock, don't even go there,' John snorted, interrupting his flat mate mid sentence and taking a long sip of his tea. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, 'just tell me why you couldn't take me with you?'

John could practically hear the tightening of fingers on ceramic and the fidgeting of lanky limbs on the sofa cushions. The question he'd asked was one he'd had from the moment he'd caught Mycroft lying to him. He wanted an honest answer.

'I — He — ,' Sherlock seemed to be fighting for words and John could see the frustration flashing in his eyes, hindered only by bursts of regret, 'John, he had snipers waiting. I-I had to die or you and Lestrade and Mrs Hudson would be shot,' he blurted out, his lanky form twitchy and awkward. Clearly the younger man felt cornered, and John realised he needed to placate his flat mate.

'I know that.'

Sherlock continued as though he hadn't heard John's quiet admission, 'I'd managed to plan something up with Molly and Myc — Wait, what?' Ah, it seemed he'd finally caught that. The doctor managed a smile from over the lip of his mug.

'I know why you had to jump, Sherlock. I killed the snipers myself,' John admitted, staring down into the caramel coloured tea in his mug, 'When I understood what had happened, I definitely wasn't going to let anything happen to the people you're fond of while you were away.'

John risked a glance at the silent consulting detective, finding the younger man completely enrapt in what John was saying. He took it as a sign to continue.

'They'd hung around you know,' he muttered, taking another sip of tea, 'Terrible business, that. They should have known I'd find them all quickly,' he sighed, resting his mug in his lap, staring down at it as his fingers tightened on the ceramic, 'I hate being underestimated, although admittedly sometimes it's a great advantage.'

'You killed them, then.' It wasn't a question and John met his best friend's eyes, unflinching.

'Of course I did. I don't like snipers skulking around my mates, and definitely not the few people my estranged flat mate actually finds tolerable.'

Sherlock leaned back against the sofa, staring into his tea mug for a long moment before taking another sip. John noticed the tremor in the man's hands as he drank. He needed to placate the detective before he worked himself up into a tizzy.

'I just wish you'd had the sense to tell me you were still alive in person,' John said softly, leaning forward in his chair towards the younger man, 'I would have come with you on your mission without question.'

Sherlock looked up, the shaking vanished. Mercury met midnight and the detective breathed out 'You know everything, then.'

'Yes.'

John kept his gaze on his flat mate, and they stared at each other for a long moment. The stress of the past three years was clearly etched onto the detective's face, and John found himself unable to resist cataloguing every new subtle line and wrinkle. The man had gained those marks trying to protect John, and therefore were precious proof of the younger man's (albeit bizarre) affection. Sherlock broke the contact first, a surprisingly submissive move for the consulting detective. John leaned back in his armchair and finished his tea, setting his mug down with a ceramic click. He might as well explain himself.

'Mycroft was the one who slipped, and even then it took a few weeks. I demanded to know everything when I figured it out and he obliged.'

'Of course he did,' Sherlock growled, 'he can't leave me well enough alone! Obvious that he'd slip up, really, too concerned about me without reason. He's always sticking his fat nose into my business.'

'He funded you, you prat. Be grateful,' John hid a smile.

Sherlock grumbled, but didn't refute John's comment, 'He had me shadowed everywhere, John. It was unbearable.'

'He had you shadowed?' He wondered if his flat mate had any idea that it hadn't been an MI5 (or MI6 for that matter) agent that followed everywhere. Only one person was allowed that honour, he thought smugly.

'Yes! Some _assassin_,' the younger man spat the word like it was foul, 'was always sneaking about and shooting men _I_ was supposed to be eliminating.'

'Ah,' John said, feeling the nausea bubble up at the thought of Sherlock killing anyone, 'Well, good on him, then,' he nodded.

'Pardon?'

John allowed a tiny smile, 'I'm glad you didn't get to murder anyone,' he clarified, gazing pointedly at his flat mate.

Sherlock blinked, confusion and then something softer passing through his bright eyes, 'Why? What would it matter? Dead is dead.'

'Because, Sherlock, you were never the killer, even if Anderson and Donovan believe that to be the case,' he replied softly, 'I'm glad you didn't get to prove them right.'

Silence reigned supreme and John allowed a flicker of amused glee to pass through his mind even as he kept his face schooled to neutral. Sherlock had obviously caught the subtext in what John had said. It seemed Sherlock finally understood why his "shadow" was so persistent in killing his enemies for him.

'_You,_' the detective breathed, surprised as he leaned forward in the sofa, '_you_ were the assassin.'

John smiled, but didn't offer a confirmation.

'Mycroft put you up to it, didn't he," Sherlock scowled, leaping up from the couch and pacing by the coffee table, 'I should have known he'd drag you into this! I was supposed to keep you safe and that cake-devouring moron threw you into the middle of it all!' John recognised the activity, the snarling tone and knew his flat mate was seconds away from a fiery rage. He needed to smother it before it combusted.

'Mycroft didn't put me up to anything. I volunteered,' he placated.

Sherlock stopped pacing, pausing and turning his head to John. Eyebrows furrowed and a need to know flickered through the molten gaze, 'Why?'

'To keep you safe, you idiot,' John laughed, 'bad enough you engage murderers to prove you're clever, but dismantling an entire crime syndicate on your own? Really, Sherlock, I'd have thought you were smarter than that.'

Sherlock blinked and sat back against the sofa, his lips twitching upwards into a ghost of a smile.

'My dear Watson, will you never cease to surprise me?'

John grinned, 'Oh, god, I hope not.'


	2. Of Deadly Bodies & Backwards Deductions

**A/N: **And here's part two of the three-part continuation of _Shooter_. Enjoy, and don't forget to review!

**NOTE: **This is unbeta'd and not Britpicked. All mistakes are my own.

* * *

**North of Normal**

Written by Amputation

* * *

_2/3 - Of Deadly Bodies and Backwards Deductions_

When he blinked open his eyes, clearing the daze that fogged his mind, Sherlock was immediately struck by one horrifying thought: He had absolutely nothing definite to ascertain his location by. He shook his head, pushing away the vertigo that threatened to encompass his focus and flinched at the rattling feeling from inside his skull. Blunt instrument to the head to render him unconscious and now he had a potential concussion. How lovely. He took slow, deep breaths and willed himself not to hyperventilate. Three months of being safely ensconced within the walls of 221B hadn't weaned him off his paranoia of being captured and being chained down against his will. He scowled. What was this place, he mused still trying to clear his fuzzy thoughts as mercurial eyes scanned the surroundings with clinical precision. Wood and stone structure, not metal. High rafters and undoubtedly a tin roof, half rusted — an old barn, judging by the scents of hay and animal feed. He was trapped in an old barn, in the middle of nowhere.

Sherlock breathed in deeply, the odour of hay long gone musty filling his nostrils. He wrinkled his nose in distaste before drifting into his Mind Palace, trying to pinpoint where exactly he was in the English countryside. His eyes fluttered closed and to an outside observer, he would appear to be dreaming. Sherlock only saw facts before him, neatly catalogued and filed away within the white walls of his Palace. He opened his eyes within his mind, finding himself standing in the familiar white fortress. He brushed imaginary dirt from his black Spencer Hart suit and straightened the lapels before standing tall and moving with purpose. He strode through the halls, black shiny Oxfords kicking up feedback with every step that echoed in the colossal fortress of knowledge. He paused before the room that held his architectural data and flung open the door, immersing himself in the facts he'd accumulated over the years and deemed unable to be deleted.

The barn he was trapped in was certainly old, judging by the internal architecture and the red blotches of rust in places where the tin roof overlapped. It was built mid 1800s most likely, going by the particular stonework patterns in the foundation and the lack of evidence supporting the use of electronic tools. A few places hadn't been patched up like others, indicating the barn was long out of use and left to fall into disrepair. Clearly not a tourist site, then. He sighed and shoved the meagre data he'd gathered into the input on his hard drive and _insufficient data requires further study_ was the only feedback received for his efforts. He cursed, snarling at the room of clearly useless facts and stormed out, slamming the door angrily. He opened his eyes with a sharp inhalation of breath and cursed again. There were countless farms dotting the landscape of the UK, so how the bloody hell was he going to be able to figure out where he'd been trapped if he couldn't _escape his blasted bonds?_

Yanking angrily at the shackles — really? Shackles? How archaic, he scoffed — that bound his hands behind his back, Sherlock strained his ears in hopes of catching some noise or _anything_ to supply his mind with the extra data it all but whinged for. He stopped his breathing for a moment to sharpen his hearing. There wasn't even a hint of the bubbling of water nor the rush of automobiles. So, not near a body of water or a motorway; he was somewhere very rural, but nowhere obvious. His nostrils twitched, hoping to catch an odour or other smell to give him an edge but there was no scent other than old hay and animal musk in the air, and _good god_, this was maddening. Sherlock resisted the urge to flop onto the ground and scream. He glared at the packed dirt floor and cursed its existence, wishing desperately for a microscope. Then at least he could analyse the damn soil and figure out what bloody county he was in.

Blasted drug cartels, he groused to himself, always a penchant for kidnapping and blunt force trauma. His thought drifted to the lump he knew was forming on his occipital ridge; he ought to be monitored. It seemed even when he was alone, John's incessant need to protect him rose to the forefront. He shook his head and turned to more relevant issues, kidnapping. No one aside from Lestrade at the Yard would give a toss he'd been taken. Anderson and Donovan would probably throw a party, for god sakes. It seemed so utterly pointless, too. Honestly, what did they have to gain by kidnapping him? If these men killed him, it would be obvious that they'd been the ones to kill the seven seemingly-unlinked individuals lying in Bart's morgue. Sherlock let out an indignant noise. Oh, how he missed the sofa! Something comfortable to flop back onto would be marvellous. Sherlock settled deeper into his sulk (not that he'd admit it was one, nope) and tried to formulate a plan for escape. He held his breath and _listened_.

Two people were outside the barn, both male judging by the sounds of shuffling, heavy footsteps, and low, muted voices. There were undoubtedly countless more of them inhabiting the farmhouse that was obviously a stone's throw away — barn in the countryside? Definitely a farmhouse nearby — and they were obviously armed, judging by the metallic sounds that came when they'd shift their weight. Only firearms make that noise, probably semi-automatics. One was definitely twitchier, possibly a new initiate? Or a heavy addict? Probably young and inexperienced with the whole deal and it should definitely be possible to persuade him into letting Sherlock go free. That would be easy, feign the need to use the restroom and render the kid unconscious once his bonds were loosed; simple. But getting past the rest of the cartel? Not so much. Sherlock heaved another sigh, cursing himself for even falling victim to the exceedingly aggravating trap.

Of course when he'd found the link between the cartel and the murders, he'd all but run from 221B like a bat out of hell. In hindsight — always 20/20, it seemed — that had been his first mistake. He'd been so _stupid_! Why hadn't he just waited for John to get back from Tesco's? His (brilliantly cuddly, his mind supplied) flat mate had been doing him a favour (brilliantly cuddly _and_ remarkably kind) and went to purchase a new box of nicotine patches. Sherlock had been thinking and had run out of them, demanding (brilliantly cuddly, remarkably kind, _and_ utterly faithful) John go get him more. Twelve minutes after John left, Sherlock had reached his epiphany and simply raced out the door. Without backup — his second mistake — he'd confronted one of the men in the cartel and subsequently ended up _here_, shackled to a barn wall in his trousers, Hugo Boss scarf (a gift from John, if it was damaged heads would _roll_), and gray cotton Dolce and Gabbana shirt. He was devoid of his suit jacket, precious Belstaff and mobile — the loss of his mobile was the third mistake. Should have put it in his shoe!

Letting his head drop forward, Sherlock forced himself to breathe. It would be fine, he told himself, he'd figure a way out of the blasted shackles and back (to brilliantly cuddly, remarkably kind, utterly faithful, and _absolutely perfect _John) before he descended into madness. The situation was essentially straight out of his worst nightmares; he abhorred the idea of being held against his will in a place he couldn't deduce the exact location of, made even worse when he couldn't escape without serious bodily harm. He willed his heart to stop racing so fast, telling himself that no, he was Sherlock bloody Holmes and he did _not_ have anxiety attacks. In an attempt to calm his frayed nerves, his thoughts turned to more calming thoughts and a mystery: his flat mate, Captain John Watson, MD and his curious behaviour from the past three months.

Since the strangely bizarre reunion that left him with a bruised cheekbone for a week and a fluttery feeling in his abdomen, John's behaviour had been altered. It wasn't in a bad way, of course, but it was distinctly different than it had been during their prior eighteen months of cohabitation. When he'd met John, the man had been able to discern almost immediately that Sherlock was not by any means a tactile creature. John didn't often touch him, even in passing or on accident. When he did, it was usually calculated and with purpose, like to pull him back from a speeding car or yank him out of the way of flying bullets. They'd held hands when they'd been handcuffed, but that was simply to avoid damaging their wrists and to keep pace with one another.

So when Sherlock noticed John's tactile tendencies increasing in frequency and becoming infinitely more commonplace after his return three months ago, it stumped him. John was not a tactile person either, he had hardly extended such comforts to his girlfriends when he'd had them, keeping a polite distance in public and even in the flat. Sherlock had no idea what John was like in private, but he suspected unless it was during the act of snogging or fornication, John had no desire for that odd, tactile domesticity that he'd seen often in other couples. It pleased him greatly when they'd met that John would not invade his personal space, but now he found the invasions didn't bother him so much; in fact, he could almost admit that he looked forward to them. That he _liked_ John's physical contact.

The touches were hardly anything more than casual, companionable grazes. But they _lingered_ and that was what baffled Sherlock the most. He knew that when the intent was of a sexual nature, the seducer would often let the caresses linger to instil a sense of want in the seduced. That nuance of seduction was not present when John touched him. There was no hint of desire in the pats on the back or the warm hand on his shoulder. Why would John let such easy touches linger if they were just for the sake of camaraderie? It was absolutely ridiculous that he even considered thinking of it, but those grazes stubbornly remained at the forefront of his mind and demanded to be solved and acknowledged. It was no secret that Sherlock was absolute rubbish at sentiment and friendship, but even he knew this was somehow more than a friendly hand on the shoulder or pat on the back.

It was more than just the touches, Sherlock admitted to himself. Ever since the day they'd met in that lab at Bart's, John had made a habit of staring openly at the consulting detective. It never bothered Sherlock, in fact he quite liked that he commanded John's attention that way, even if he didn't know why he liked it. John had even picked up on his singular tell from all that open staring and despite the inconvenience, Sherlock found himself proud of John for not only seeing, but _observing_. Lately though, since he'd returned to 221B, John stared more and with a sharp, frightening intensity that was somewhat off-putting to Sherlock. Well, not really off-putting, but it made him feel _naked_, as illogical as that was. Sherlock wasn't modest; he had no qualms about his body and quite enjoyed walking around in nothing but his pants and dressing gown, or even just a sheet. John often commented about how thin Sherlock was, but never gave any indication he was aroused by Sherlock's nudity.

That was where the problem lay. Most frequently, when people stared at him the way John did, Sherlock got the distinct feeling that the perpetrator was undressing him with their eyes, stripping him and imagining what he looked like under the sharp, tailored clothing. John's gazes — if they could even be called that — were never so desirous. They were scrutinizing, yes. They swept up and down, yes. But they never gave the indication that John was divesting him of his clothing with his eyes. Sherlock had discretely studied John on multiple occasions, looking for signs of a racing pulse or dilated pupils or increased respiration. Never had a single sign of attraction or sexual arousal been present. Sherlock found it was both a relief and a disappointment, the latter of which had surprised him greatly.

Sherlock stood back from the wall he was shackled to, pacing the meagre distance he was allowed with his bonds. John was an enigma, and probably always would be. It both intrigued and troubled Sherlock greatly, knowing he would probably never solve the mystery that was John Watson. Sherlock shut his eyes and gritted his teeth, hating the distraction that his flat mate and best friend caused. It was a welcome distraction, really, but inconvenient. Especially in times like the — a click of something metallic ripped him from his aggravated musings and his eyes snapped open. He lifted his foot and a small steel nail glared back at him. A smirk slid across Sherlock's lips and he swiftly lowered himself to the ground, leaning back and groping with shackled hands for the key that would get him out.

Most shackles were individual and linked at the centre with a simple locking mechanism. If Sherlock could manage to slot the nail into the keyhole, he would most likely be able to pick it and free himself. It would take some time, but it was something Sherlock would gladly suffer if it meant getting out of the bloody barn and back to 221B. Back to John, his mind supplied unhelpfully. His fingers twitched as the steel nail skirted just out of his reach and he cursed his impeded dexterity, wiggling backwards and probably irreparably ruining his trousers. And he liked this set. A pity. He pushed past mourning the loss of a perfectly good suit and continued his attempts of grasping the key to his freedom.

He just wanted to get back to life as usual in 221B, back with his John, solving crime and drinking tea and being touched and stared at. God, he wanted that with a profound intensity that burned hotly in his lower abdomen. It made absolutely no sense, but he _wanted_. It was bizarre how deeply ensnared he was by the mystery of his flat mate. The unassuming man had warranted a private room in Sherlock's Mind Palace almost from the moment they'd met at Bart's. Sherlock paused a moment in his attempts to grasp the nail, a realisation filtering into focus. He'd yet to add in the new factors — the touching, the staring — into his analyses of John Watson. What would the additions mean, exactly? Ooh, the possibilities! Eagerly, Sherlock slipped into his Mind Palace once more, all but running through the halls to face down the double doors leading into the massive room — more of a whole wing, really — that held all facts regarding his flat mate. Swinging open the gargantuan doors, Sherlock immersed himself in everything John, eagerly herding all the information to the input on his hard drive. His body stiffened as everything was filtered and categorised, funnelling down into a conclusion. Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he sucked in a sharp breath, coming back to reality as his hard drive spat out reasoning he couldn't argue with.

_John Watson: Caring, bleeding heart. Strong moral principle, nerves of steel. Unerringly loyal, unconventionally intelligent. Powerful in his own right, skilled with weaponry. Master of his body, a soldier and doctor. Best friend. Only friend that matters. Keep him. Keep him. Keep him. Alert! New Data input, post-falsified death: touching, staring increased in frequency and intensity. Subject circled the globe, protected with vehemence. Dangerous. Protective. Possessive. Best conclusion: assuring himself Sherlock Holmes is present, not dead, not in danger. Warning! Do not provoke! Probable loose cannon if Sherlock Holmes endangered; likelihood: 95.7849 percent._

Well. That was certainly not what he'd been expecting. John was protective, almost possessive of Sherlock, according to the data. It was shocking, frankly. Mummy and his late Father were never all that concerned about their strange youngest son, and aside from Mycroft (_older brother, protective by nature_ his brain supplied helpfully), Sherlock had never had anyone so preoccupied with his wellbeing before John. It made him strangely happy to know he was so important to John; he'd already known when his best friend had told him of his mourning in the wake of Sherlock's "death," but to have his brain spit out the same conclusion filled him with a secondary wave of pleasure and contentedness.

He drifted back into reality and Sherlock bit back the shout of triumph when after what seemed like ages as his fingers closed around the nail, allowing a grin of victory to cross his face. The angle wasn't optimal by any stretch of the imagination, but Sherlock knew he could tolerate the discomfort so long as he achieved his freedom. He strained his ears for the clicking of the lock apparatus as he poked and prodded with the sharp end of the nail. It was tedious work, and straining on his joints but his freedom hung in the balance, and nothing was more important.

The sudden influx of gunfire broke his concentration and Sherlock nearly dropped the nail. What was going on? Why were they shooting? Who were they shooting at? Unanswered questions filled his brain and he was dying to know. The shouting got louder until the two stationed outside the barn were yelling at each other.

'You go get 'im!'

'No way, mate! You do it!'

A girlish shriek ripped from one of the men's throats and two dull thuds echoed against the wooden door. Unconscious? Or dead? Sherlock leaned forward, morbid curiosity filling his chest. Two loud bangs and the barn door all but fell in on itself, leaving the consulting detective feeling like all air had escaped his lungs in a rush of surprise and sudden desperation.

'_John..!'_

The shorter man's jaw was clenched and his eyes flashed steel. Shoulders were tense and he held two handguns, one in each calloused palm. He stood with purpose, body positively singing with potential energy and with intimidating posture that was anything but friendly. His ash blond hair was in disarray but somehow made him appear all the more dangerous. Army-issue boots slid slightly along the dirt floor, and before Sherlock could find the breath to call out to his best friend, the man calmly turned his head towards the door and spun his upper body almost lazily, firing two shots, one from each gun. Two thuds echoed faintly in Sherlock's ears and he found he had to swallow, his mouth suddenly dry. John's gaze finally met Sherlock's, a steel blue eye turning towards the detective's sprawled form on the floor. Sherlock found he was incapable of speech as John moved to him with catlike fluidity, slipping his guns into the waistband of his trousers.

In a matter of seconds, Sherlock was freed as John produced the key to the shackles. The consulting detective was hauled to his feet, and John was examining his wrists, scowling at the welts that had arisen from the awkward attempts at lock picking. Sherlock tried multiple times to speak, but found the words would not come. He was immersed in everything _John_ and it was wonderful. Seeing John as this testosterone and adrenaline fuelled berserker only reinforced the conclusion he'd come to about the man. This was the 95.7849 percent certainty come to life. Footsteps approached the barn, moving at a pace that indicated running and John stepped back from him, his posture instantly shifting to protective. Sherlock found himself missing the warmth John's close presence brought him, as irrational as the sentiment was. John spun on his heel, facing the door and flexing his fingers. His thighs tensed and then suddenly he was _moving._

Sherlock watched, shell-shocked, as John utterly destroyed the handful of cartel members as they tried to take him out. He streaked across the barn floor with grace, maximizing his momentum and delivering devastating strikes. His body was a work of art, bending and flexing with a deftness that left Sherlock gasping for air. John moved with practiced skill, ducking and weaving between enemies, disarming them with slaps of the wrist and twisting hands. Sherlock was enrapt by the strength hidden in those short, calloused fingers and wondered how they could go from gentle to deadly in such a short time. He bit his lip so hard he tasted blood but it seemed oddly fitting as he watched the force of nature that was Captain John Watson decimate his adversaries with ease.

John did receive blows — he was not invincible after all — but he rolled with the punches and seemed to use the momentum to his advantage. It took Sherlock's breath away to see how obviously the compact man had truly been made for combat. Locked in hand to hand brawling with the remaining cartel members, John's face was spattered with blood — most of it not his own — and speckled with bruises. His knuckles oozed crimson, the bronzed skin torn from where he'd struck flesh and metal alike. One down. Two down. He watched John face the remaining cartel member, ducking under the swinging handgun with ease. A flash of his hand and twist of a wrist that left the other man screaming as carpals were crushed. John flipped the gun in his hand and pistol-whipped the man in the head, rendering him unconscious and crumpling to the floor.

It was like someone flipped a switch as the police swarmed onto the scene, the flashing lights smothering everything with bursts of red and blue. Lestrade approached John immediately, speaking rapidly to the obviously uninterested former soldier as paramedics approached Sherlock. Ignoring the penlight that shone in his eyes, Sherlock kept his gaze on his flat mate. As he spoke to the detective inspector, John spun the swiped handgun lazily, flicking the safety back on with an absent-minded carelessness. Lestrade continued to question the shorter man and movement caught Sherlock's attention. He focussed immediately. With an almost bored languidness, John disengaged the gun's clip and let it fall to the ground with a thud — with only a single hand.

Sherlock felt the world fall out from under him.

Oh.

_Oh!_

He was in love with John Watson.

... well, _shit._

_.tbc_


End file.
